


Mine Own and Not Mine Own

by Ice_Tiger



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Kidnapping, Multi, Orphanage, POV John Watson, POV Sebastian Moran, POV Sherlock Holmes, Parentlock, Post Reichenbach, References to Addiction, References to Drugs, Revenge, Substance Abuse, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-03
Updated: 2013-12-09
Packaged: 2017-12-22 07:37:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/910609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ice_Tiger/pseuds/Ice_Tiger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The streets of London hold many secrets, as does Sherlock Holmes.</p><p>When a misterious little boy with John's middle name stumbles onto a crime scene, there is quite a lot to explain. But explinations are only the beginning.  <br/>The work of a consulting detective is dangerous, and to make matters worse, a certain sniper has had a good long time to think on who, exactly, is to blame for his boss's death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first multi-chapter work, so please excuse any terribleness. I love feedback. It's my favourite. This fanfiction switchers perspectives on ocassion, so don't be confused. 
> 
> The title for this work comes from a line in William Shakespeares "A Midsummer Night's Dream."
> 
> (I apologize for any typos.)

It had happened after the fall, when he was alone and hiding.

"Sherlock, we need to talk. IA"

He'd been alone. Presumed dead. He'd been vulnerable and lonley and more than a little lost. So who better to spend his time with then someone who was also "playing dead?"

"I've got some rather exciting news. IA"

It was never supposed to go as far as it did. He just needed some comfort and company. He'd gotten used to having John around and he needed a new friend.

"Or a bit devastating, depending on how you look at it. IA"

"Are you going to tell me, or are you simply going to vauegly allude until I lose interest? SH"

"Hmmm, titchy, Sherlock. Fine, I suppose I'll tell you, if you're so impatient. IA"

"You're going to be a father. IA"

It was only one night. It was never supposed to go this far. 

"I see. And I suppose you intend to make me take care of it once it's born? SH"

"Quite the opposite, dear. I don't think I'll be letting you see the child at all. IA"

"Ah. May I inquire as to why? SH"

He'd never wanted a child. Or never thought he had. 

"You've got a secret soft-spot, Sherlock, we all do, and I think raising your own little genius will make you just a bit /too/ happy. We both know, you and I, that you dont deserve to be Happy. IA" 

A large revenge for a small wrong. 

"You'll never get to meet your son or daughter, and that will just tear you apart. IA"

And that he'd been it, all he heard about the child he'd never know.

 Well, almost all. The final text had come several months later, in the middle of the night, Eight years ago.

"It's a boy. Think I'll take John's advice, and name him Hamish. IA"

 

Maybe it was the fog. It hung heavy and low on london's alleyways that day, concealing all but the boldest of movements and the brightest of colours. Maybe it was the semi-darkness of the alleyway, sarounding Sherlock as he stood a few meters away front the rest of the group, magnifying glass in hand. Or maybe the boy was just so cold and tired that he'd stopped paying attention to where he was going until he collided hard with Sherlock, falling to his knees on the pavement at the impact.

"S-sorry, sir." The small form mumbled, pulling himself to shaking feet. "I didn't mean to...." He turned on his heel and tried to sprint away, as though he thought the man before him would attack. Sherlock reached out a quick hand and grabbed the boy's ragged jumper with little to no effort, pulling him back. "What are you doing here? This is a crime scene, there's tape and policemen on either end of the alleyway. Surely you must have seen."

The little boy wrapped his arms around himself, shivering with what was clearly a mixture of cold and nerves. "I came through the sewers." He admitted. "Not the awful ones. An old dry one. It's good to sleep in."  
"You live on the streets, then." The boy quickly shook his head. "No sir. No, I've got a family! They, uh....I just.....I....please don't turn me. I can't go back to the orphanage, please!" To Sherlock's surprise, tears were forming in the boy's eyes. Sherlock hurriedly waved his fears away. "Of course I won't report you. You might be of use to me on the streets, especially if you know how to get around underground. What's your name?"  The boy kneeded his hands together, and Serlock recognized the expression of someone trying to compass an alibi. "You can tell me the truth. I'll know If you lie."   
The little boy's eyes grew wide, and Sherlock was sure he had never had an adult see through him before. of course. A boy so small, living on his own for what had obviously been a long time, judging by the warn jumper, must be an experiances liar. The boy took a shaky little breath."Hamish, sir."

Oh, but this might just be Christmas. "Hamish? Is that so?" It wasn't a common name, after all. "I have a friend who's middle name is Hamish. Quite the coincidence, don't you think?" Sherlock didn't believe in coincidences. "Come with me. I need to talk to my...coworker." Hamish had blackcurly hair and blue eyes soft lips like Irene's. His eyes were wide an curious, a subtle sign of intelligence. Should he even dare to hope?

They reentered the more brightly kit part of the alleyway, where lamps and flashlights scared away the fog that would otherwise have entirely hidden the body lying on the ground. Lestrade, peering into the alleyway and waiting for Sherlock's return, was the first to notice that the detective's tall silouetted had been joined by another one, a smaller one. 

"Well hello, there. Who's this?" Lestrade smiled at the boy, crouching down next to him.  
"I need use of this crime scene for a few moments. You can return to your work in a moment." Lestrade's straightened up, and Hamish wadered away from Sherlock's side, staring unblinkingly around the crime scene. "Sherlock." Lestrade hissed. "You can't just pick up some entirely random child and bring them to look at dead bodies."  
"Oh, but I can. And if theories are correct you'll find that he is anyhing but random. Five minutes, lestrade. Please." Greg stared at him for several seconds before slowly, reluctantly nodding. "I hope to god you know what you're doing."

"I'd like you to come take a look at this man, Hamish." Lestrade sighed in exasperation, but Sherlock may as well not have heard him for all the atention he payed. Hamish walked slowley over to the man, looking nervous "I want you to look at him and tell me whether he worked inside or outside." The boy's face screwed up In concentration. Sherlock watched him intently, making note of everything: the way his eyes moved over the body, the way he bit his lip when he was thinking, how he closed his eyes and murmured to himself for a few minutes before standing up and declaring with complete certainty "He worked inside." Sherlock felt another flutter of hope. "Good. How do you know?" Hamish pointed to the man's feet. "His shoes. The bottoms aren't all scuffed. I don't think they'd look that nice if he was outside on that street all day."  
"Can you tell anything else from the shoes?" Hamish paused a moment. "I....They look nice. But they're not really. I don't think they were very expensive. They're only meant to look posh." The flutter had turned into a flame. "Hamish, can you tell me more from this man's body? Can you tell...what his profession was?" Hamish screwed up his face again. He lingered on the shoes for a few more moments, until it seemed he had gleaned every scrap of information he could from them, and moved on, talking as he went. "He's got a tie. That means he wants to look nice, right? And it's probably for his job, but I don't know. And the shoes were the same. So he needs to look nice for his job. But they don't pay him a lot, or he'd have better shoes, right?" He sat down on the floor next to the dead man's hand, and reached out to brush a finger across his palm. "Its very dry. Like he's been in the cold. But...he works inside. So what makes his hands so dry?" He looked to Sherlock for help, but the detective wasn't offering any. Hamish went back to studying the man's hand, still resolved to answer Sherlock's question. "So he's got to look nice at work. But he doesn't make much money. And he uses stuff that makes his hands dry." Suddenly, Hamish's eyes widened, and he pointed frantically to a white streak on the man's hand. " Chalk! It's Chalk! He's a teacher!" He nearly shouted it, beaming with pride, and Sherlock let out a loud, triumphant laugh. "Lesteade, have you been listening to what just happened?" The DI turned around from a conversation with one of the other Yarders. "No, sorry. I've sort of got a murder case to solve, Sherlock." He waved it away. "Oh, I  already soleved it ages ago. It was his daughter. But come listen to this."

 He hastily explained what Hamish had done, but Lestrade only looked confused. "So...you're saying he made a deduction?like you do? Someone must have tought him, right?" Sherlock was growing more and more excited now. "No, lestrade, what I do is more than learned behavior. It has to do with the way a brain functions. The ability to observe, make conections in the blink of an eye, the ability to reason backwards, if you will, is deeply embedded in a person's psychology. besides, the boy can't be more than eight or nine! When would he have had the time to learn such a thing? No, this talent must have been passed down from his parents. His PARENTS, Lestrade! Oh, don't you understand what this means?"   
"I don't quite-"  
"Oh, this is brilliant, this is unbelievably brilliant. I shall require the rest of the day off. Lillian Brown is your killer. You'll find her at a used car dealership in Kent. Good day."

Sherlock crouhed down next to the little boy again. "Have you got anywhere to go, Hamish? Do you have a home other than that opehanage you ran away from?" The little boy shook his head, and his eyes were so wide and pitiful that Sherlock made up his mind on the spot. "Come with me." He tool the boy, and started off towards the main road. "You're going to stay with my friend and I for a little while, alright?" Hamish looked surprised, but nodded happily. "Alright." He murmured, hurrying after Sherlock.  
   
 "John, we're leaving." The doctor turned at the sound of Sherlock's voice. He'd been talking to Anderson and missed Sherlock's discovery of the little boy, and his little deduction session. "What, already? We're just getting here."  
"Now, John."  
"Right, fine. Coming." He ran after Sherlock, panting slightly as he caught up. Working in the surgery didn't give him much cause to run, and even he had to admit that he was out of shape. Upog reaching Sherlock, however, he stopped stock still. 

"Um, Sherlock....Who's this?" Sherlock laughed softly. "Our new houseguest."   
"I...what?" He lowered his voice and took a step closer to Sherlock so that only they could hear. "Sherlock, you can't just take other people's children! His parents are probably around here somewhere looking for him." Sherlock's smile grew wider, and John couldn't help but think that there was somethig rather dishonest about the grin. There was somethig he wasn't telling John. "One of his parents is."   
"And what's that supposed to mean?"  
"Hamish is going to be staying with us for a while, as I said. Please trust that I have my reasons."

"I-Hamish?" John stared at the little boy. "Your name is Hamish?" He asked, his voice a bit gentler that it had been when he was adressing Sherlock. Hamish nodded, curls bobbing. "Yes sir." John took a step back. It had to be a coincidense, of course. He wasn't entirley sure what else it could be. But for some reason, It was enough to make Sherlock decide that this boy needed to stay with them. And who was he to question the motives of the great Sherlock Holmes?


	2. Chapter 2

Sebastian Moran had never been very interested in justice. He's a vengence man, cold and coordinated. But even so, he knew unfair. He knew that sting that comes with watching people be happy over the pain that lurks in other. He knew how unfair it was that after the fall, Sherlock came home to more famiy than he'd left behind, and Sebastian was still coming home to an empty flat day after day after day. Empty as Jim's eyes when Sebastian pried the gun from his hand, a little too late. Empty as Jim's side of the bed.

Sometimes, he'd try to fill the spaces in the flat with broken glass. When he was drunk at the end of another pointless day and he smashed the half empty bottle to bits, not caring where each shard flew, but knowing that when a sliver met his skin he'd feel a sharp jolt that made him feel as though he was still living. Smashed bottles had now caused as many scars as Jim did. On bad days, the flat practically glittered with it.

Now he understood Jim's fairytale endings. In a fairytail, it's good that triumphs, bad that's vanquished, pulls the trigger, black and white and clear as day. But in the real world, that's simply not the the case. You only have to turn on the news to see so. The bomber gets away, the bankrobber kills the clerk, cancer is still uncurable and cars swerve off of bridges. So why is Jim gone? Bad has defeated himself.

Sebatian downed the last of the vodka and threw the bottle at the wall.  
  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This next update is taking longer than I expected, but I should have it up by August 22 at the very latest. However, it will probably be much sooner then that.


	3. Chapter 3

The cab was warm, and it was easy for Sherlock to see that Hamish was absolutley relishing the absence of cold air. "John and I will have to get you a new jumper. That one doesn't seem  
 to be if any use to you."

 Hamish's face lit up. "A new one? Really? Wow!" He suddenly seemed to remember where he was, and added "I'm sorry, sir. I don't need another jumper."  
"Nonsence. You'll freeze in that one." Hamish seeemed to be trying very hard not to agree, his desire to be polite battleing with his survival instinct. His made a squeeky, whimpering sound, and then shrank back against the seat of the cab, muttering another "Thank you." before turning to stare happily out the window, resigned to being utterly confused.

John watched the whole exchange in stunned silence. It was usual for Sherlock to criptic, but his exploits never involved involved abything quite as out of the blue as bringing small children home.

 If it was anyone other than Sherlock Holmes sitting beside him, he would have called him out on being crazy, impulsive, confused. If it were anyoneone else, John would have made sure the boy was either left at the crime scene or returned to his parents. If it were anyone else, John woul have refused to get in the cab without a decent explination. But, of course, if it were anyone else, John wouldn't be in love with them.

And then there was the matter of the name. It wasn't a common name, Hamish, not common at all, but there was no possibility of conection, not the faintest hope of a link between the two names. It was Just a conincdence.

At least, that's what he would think if didn't live with Sherlock Holmes, because Sherlock rigidly disbelieved in the the very idea of coincidences. The way Shwrlock had introduced the boy, the triumph in his voice, the little quirk of the eyebrow that showed he knew exactly how much power rested in that two sillable name, it all pointed to the notion that their names were far more than idle chance.

What that might mean, John had no idea.

"Where do you live, Hamish?" John asked the little boy. If Serlock wasn't giving him answers, he could flounder around until he found his own. Hamish opened his mouth, closed it again, blinked, and looked up at Serlock, who nodded, as if to signify that John was trustworthy. "I...I don't have a home." Hamish said quiety, and John thought the boy was trying to hide an edge of sadness in his voice.

"Wrong."

 John and Hamish both looked up at Sherlock in surprise. "What?"

"He does have a home. With me. I told you, Hamish, you're coming to live with us now."  
"Sherlock-"  
"John."

 John closed his mouth and slowly sank back against the seat. He knew that tone of voice, and it was not to be argued with. Sherlock was decided, and once he had made up his mind, there was nothing that could stop him. If the man made up his mind to move the Atlantic Ocean, he would find a way to do it.

"Yeah. You're living with us. Aparently." John offered the little boy a kind smile. He might be cofused and frustrated and more than a little pissed off, but it wasn't Hamish's fault. The boy must be quite as lost as he was. 

"Have you known Sherlock a while, then?" Maybe he was one of the street kids who brought the detective information. That would make sence. In fact, John was sure that was it.

 But Hamish shook his head, and John was back to square one. "You...you didn't just meet him today, did you?" John asked, almost afraid of the answer. Hamish nodded, but shyly this time, almost reluctantly. He seemed to think, from John's tone of voice, that he had done somethig wrong. 

But John's frustration wasn't aimed at the boy. "Sherlock." He hissed, hoping Hamish didn't hear. "What are you trying to acomplish here? I know he's just a little kid, and it's sad to see him on the street, but you can't take in every urchin you meet. Besides, since when have you gotten so emotionaly attatched?" Sherlock's eyes were hard and cold as he returned John's gaze, and he suddenly regretted speaking. "I will explain. I promise. But not now. Just know that Hamish is much, much more than some urchin." 

John nodded weakly. At least Sherlock had said he was going to explain.


	4. Chapter 4

He heard him all the time. Sometimes it was just a whisper, so faint that Sebastian couldn't be sure of what he was hearing, faint enough to let Sebastian cling to the illusion of his sanity. But sometimes it was closer to a shout, Jim's voice rushing in and slamming him to the floor with the force of his hulucination.

He saw him, too, although that was a much less common occurance. And when he did see Jim, it wasn't quite right, like he was looking at him through a camera that wouldn't focus properly. He could make out the suit, the perfectly combed and styled hair, the sharp shaddow of his jawline, but never the details of his face. The beutiful lips that had pressed against every part of Sebastian's body were somehow faded, not fuzzy exactly, but they refused to be seen. The same with his cheekbones, his nose, his eyes...especially his eyes. Sebastian would have sold his soul to see Jim's dark eyes one more time. Although he had a feeling he had lost his soul the moment he met Mr. James Moriarty.

Jim had left Sebastian a bit of a present when he died. It was a closed circut TV system, with seventeen feeds set up in various locations in and around 221B. "In case things don't go to plan. In case you need to keep an eye on Johnny." Jim had drawled on his way out the door.

 That was the last thing Jim had ever said to him. 

Funny, how that worked. In stories, last words are always so much more important. Not that those were Jim's last, but they were the last directed at Sebastian. And that was what mattered to him. In books, last words were always a profound realization, a confession of love, deep, meaningful satements. Something. And It seemed as though Jim, storyteller that he was, should have put more though into his.

But "In case you need to keep an eye on Johnny." was all he'd ever get, and no matter how much Sebastian flipped the sentance over and smashed it up and stuck it back together, it didn't change reality.

He had easily adjusted to insanity. After all, you can never fight a hulluconation. You can't touch a huucination. You can never win an argument with something that was born out of your own mind, because it knows your every thought. So Sebastian slipped easily into madness, welcoming each dark alley or grim spot his mind slipped into.

At the moment, Sebastian's eyes were glued to a screen displaying multiple CCTV feeds. Specifically, it desplayed the face of a young, dark haired boy. Who was he? He's arrived in the flat only minutes ago, and Sebastian had never seen the boy before. Sebatian's had was pressed against the screen, as though he thought he could reach inside and pull out the answers. Who was this boy?

"You can be so dreadfully dull sometimes, tiger." Sebastian didn't even flinch anymore when he heard that voice. "Yeah, well, not everyone is as bloody brilliant as you. Or as much of an arse." He didn't turn aroud to see Jim, knowing there probably wouldn't be anything to see. "Who is he, then? I'm assuming you can't tell me."  
"Of course not."  
"Of course not. Thanks for all the fucking help." 

Sebastian flipped between feeds to get a better angle of the little boy's face. He looked like Sherlock, but that couldn't be anything more than coincidental. If Sherlock had a kid, Sebastian would know. Jim would have known. He switched feeds again. It probably wouldn't be an exageration to say that Sherlock Holmes was becoming something of an obsession to Sebastian. It was the one thing he had inherited from Jim when he died, this fixation with the residents and happenings of 221B.. Sebatian didn't kid himself that it was healthy, but at least he had something to do.     

 

    


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize I haven't updated this I'm an unacceptably long time, and I apologize with all my heart. I promise to try to update more frequently.

Hamish was silent for the rest of the cab ride. In fact, he didn't say anything until they were in the flat, and Sherlock had shown him to the spare room, shown him where everything was, and made sure he was settled. And even then, the only sound he made was a very quiet "Thank you, sir." It was clear that the little boy was confused. But he had every reason to be confused, really, as he had just gone from living on the street to having his own bedroom in the span of half an hour.

John was also confused. He watched Sherlock showing the boy around, a ghost of a theory forming in his mind. It didn't make sense, his theory, but the situation didn't make any sense either. He didn't really know what to think or not think.

It didn't matter anyway, as his thinking was interrupted a few minutes later by Hamish poking his head into the sitting room. "Ummmm....John?" the poor little boy was wringing his hands and looking absolutely guilt-stricken to be asking for anything. "Is there....may I...." he looked down at the floor, seemingly unable to say anything more. 

John's heart melted. Christ, how could anyone resist helping this kid? He was so sweet and shy and clearly a little scared. John walked over and crouched next to him. "What is it, love?" God, did he look like Sherlock. It wasn't possible, it didn't make any sense...but Hamish was the spitting image of the detective. "C-could I take a shower?" he finally managed. "I wouldn't ask, but...."  
" Of course you can! You don't have to ask about that, okay? Just make yourself at home. And don't thank me." he said quickly, as Hamish opened his mouth again to do just that. John smiled. "I'm glad we can help you, Hamish."  
"Why are you helping me?" 

John bit his lip, unable to answer. "I...Sherlock didn't give you a reason?" Hamish shook his head. "Nothing at all?"  
"No. He...." Hamish broke off and shrugged. "He what?"  
"He showed me a man. A...a dead man. And he made me figure out things about him, just by looking, and I figured out what the man's job was. Sherlock was really pleased." Oh, fuck no. No.  
"You...deduced?" He realized quickly that the little boy probably didn't know what that meant. "Nevermind." There could only be one reason Sherlock would test the little boy. A confusing, perplexing, unimaginable reason.

"John, I'm sure Hamish is hungry, why not offer him some food?" John tore his gaze away from Hamish, glaring up at Sherlock.

 

"is he yours? Don't lie to me Sherlock, I want to know."  
John had taken Sherlock aside, nearly shoved him into the bedroom, leavings Hamish in the kitchen with a heaping plate of pasta and a glass of milk. Sherlock tensed, the colour draining from his face. "I..." He swallowed hard, painfully aware of the wooden bedpost pressing into his back. John held him firmly, not sure whether to glare or not.  
"I made some mistakes, after my fall." he admitted, the words escaping him as a quiet hum, not much above a whisper. "I believe that Hamish was one of those mistakes, yes. With, um...."  
"Irene Adler." John didn't need to be told. There was no other woman to Sherlock.  
"I knew it. I knew you slept with her." John mumbled, letting go of his husband and stepping back. Sherlock sighed and stepped forward. "John, be reasonable, I-" John gaped at him. "Reasonable? You have a /son!/"  
"I just meant...oh, hang it all." Sherlock sat down heavily on the bed. "John, you need to understand how alone I was. You and I were only friends at the time, and you believed me dead. I took comfort where I found it. And I have never cheated on you."  
John knew it was true. Sherlock was about as faithful as they came. But John wanted to be angry, he felt angry, and he searched desperately for a reason to maintain his temper. "But....but you lied to me! You knew about him, didn't you? You knew about Hamish! Hell, you know everything."  
There was silence for a minute, and Sherlock's shoulders sagged. He smoothed his hands over the bed, long fingers flattening the wrinkled bedspread. The clinking if a fork against a dish came coating in from the kitchen  
. "I did. She told me years ago."  
That was so much more than John had bargained for. He wanted to be angry, but he want ready for that level of betrayal. "Years?" He felt shaky. Sherlock kept secrets. He withheld evidence and concealed details. He waited until the opportune moment to reveal the truth, until it was convenient for him. Sherlock was the child who hid the last puzzle piece so that only he could finish the puzzle. But this was an awfully large puzzle piece.  
"You've known for...for /years/ that you had a son? That can't be what you're saying, Sherlock." Sherlock continued to smooth the bedspread. "Irene Adler had your child, and you didn't think that was an important piece if information to share with your bloody husband?" John felt dizzy. The floor was moving underneath him, and Sherlock wasn't responding. That was even more infuriating than when he fought back. Sherlock could when any argument with a few words. But his silence made a fight hang in the air for days. Sherlock took a step back, turned, and left the room, leaving John clinging to nothing.


End file.
